


but what if i told you the world wouldn't end?

by penelopeblossom



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Riverparents, blossomisms, brief mention of attempted suicide, but there's a happy ending, okay so it's not explicitly palice but...it can be, or at least a hopeful one, palice, parentdale, tastefully peppered lighthearted jokes if you squint hard enough, tender moments, tending to partially healed wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22183936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penelopeblossom/pseuds/penelopeblossom
Summary: In which Alice has been aiding Penelope in her recovery from the Thornhill fire and drops in on one of her weekly visits.
Relationships: Penelope Blossom & Alice Cooper
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	but what if i told you the world wouldn't end?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bewareoftrips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewareoftrips/gifts).



> Just a brief little one-shot inspired by an anon I got on tumblr the other night. Takes place outside of canon-verse, in a timeline where the Penelope/Alice hospital scene from 2x01 hadn't been deleted. Still pretty canon-compliant, all things considered.

_THISTLE HOUSE — December 14th, 2017_

Alice scoops up a generous amount of Petro-Salve with two fingers and begins to gently rub it into Penelope’s damaged skin. She moves her fingers in circles, trying to keep up a steady motion so that it almost feels like a massage. Even though the burns are a little over two months old now, and the skin has mostly healed, her instinct is to be mindful and cautious. 

“How does that feel?” she checks in after a while.

“Fine.” Penelope follows Alice’s movements with her eyes, choosing to focus on her fingers instead of the visible scars on her arm. 

“Does it hurt?”

Penelope shakes her head. There had been some nerve damage, according to her doctor, but it hadn’t been severe enough to impair any motor function. She wasn’t even sure she could feel all that much of a difference, though she was still healing and undergoing physical therapy. And while she had been in a great deal of pain for that entire first month, the perennial discomfort had long since subsided. Or at least, it had finally subsided enough for the painkillers to keep it at bay. All that was left to permanently remind her of the dreadful ordeal were the scars. 

“Someone’s quiet all of a sudden,” Alice quips. She continues to work her way up Penelope’s arm, only stopping when she has to reach for more salve. 

“Sorry,” Penelope apologizes, pulling herself out of her thoughts. “It doesn’t hurt. I took my pain medication earlier.”

Alice pauses to look at her, trying to see if she can read anything in her eyes. “Is everything okay?” she asks. She can sense that something is off but can’t quite put her finger on what. One moment Penelope had been happy to see her and then next she had seemingly withdrawn into herself. Alice knew the woman had always been a closed book, but she genuinely believed the two of them had been making progress the past few months. After all, they had been seeing so much of each other that it was practically inevitable.

“What runs through your mind when you look at them?” Penelope finally asks softly. “My scars, I mean.” She can only muster up enough courage to get the words out, as she finds herself unable to meet Alice’s eyes. Instead she opts for the flames dancing quietly in the fireplace— old habits.

The question takes Alice by surprise but, sensing the weight of it, she doesn’t falter. Instead, she dips her fingers back into the salve and picks up right back where she left off. “Hmm, well let’s see,” she says, resuming the circular movements on Penelope’s inner arm, “the skin is a lot smoother than I anticipated. I figured it would be rougher, but it’s not all that different from the rest of your skin. The biggest difference is in the pigmentation, and even then it’s nothing drastic. The burns have healed remarkably well...too well, if you ask me. That witch doctor in Greendale really knew what he was doing...”

Alice can tell her words aren’t just going in one ear and out the other when Penelope’s gaze shifts momentarily from the fireplace to the floor. She scoops up one final bit of salve and starts working it over Penelope’s hand and knuckles. “But mostly,” she continues, “I think that it must have been incredibly painful to go through everything you did. And I’m glad you survived.” 

Once she’s finished applying the salve, she reaches over and wipes her hands clean on a towel before closing the lid on the little tub. When she looks back up, there are tears in the redhead’s eyes. 

“I hate looking at them,” she whimpers, breaking into a sob. 

Alice is surprised when she doesn’t turn away from her or cover her face with her hands. All her life, she has never known Penelope to feel comfortable expressing vulnerability— least of all in front of her.

“Every time I see them I just want to cover them up.” 

“They’re just scars, Penelope...”

“Would _you_ want them?” she snaps, unable to stop herself. Her tone is harsh but it’s all hurt. Perhaps that’s why Alice doesn’t fire back at her like she normally would. She takes a few seconds to collect herself before continuing. “When I was a child I caught chickenpox from one of the other girls at the orphanage. I remember sitting in the common room one day, picking at the scabs...Sister Mary Carmen saw and immediately slapped my hand away, warning me that if I didn’t stop picking at them that they would leave scars. ‘No gentleman would ever want to marry a lady whose beauty was marred’ she said. I was four.”

“Penelope...”

“I thought it so silly at the time,” she adds, trying to smile. “Then when I was older, any time I would pick at my skin, Rose would chastise me...and I couldn’t help but recall Sister Mary Carmen’s words.”

Alice can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Penelope, what century do you think this is? You really think a couple of scars means no man will ever look twice at you again?” 

Penelope opens her mouth to say something but the words don’t come out. 

“Besides, who needs a man anyway? You’re a grown woman; you can take care of yourself.”

“Oh I must remarry eventually,” Penelope corrects her, carefully wiping the tears from her eyes so as to erase any evidence of her emotional outburst. “Ideally sooner rather than later. With all of our assets having been seized by the police, and now all of these medical bills, I don’t know how much longer I can afford to support this family.” 

“So get a job!” Alice shrieks, unable to listen to this sort of talk any longer. The desire to smack some sense into the Blossom woman is strong but she manages to keep her hands to herself. God forbid Penelope throw her out before she had time retrieve the milkshakes and sandwiches she brought them from Pop’s.

Penelope looks back at her with wide, doe-eyes as if the suggestion Alice has just given her is the most outrageous thing in the world. Leave it to Penelope Blossom to be scandalized by the prospect of having her own career. 

“My degree is worthless,” she says, as if it should be obvious. 

“Then figure something out! You’re an intelligent woman. Get a job at Pop’s, or maybe try the department store. I know the perfume counter at Spiffany’s is hiring.” 

Penelope scoffs, “I refuse to be on my feet all day handing out perfume samples to middle-aged women with counterfeit luxury handbags. And I certainly won’t be slinging milkshakes at Pop’s with the man who dumped my son’s body in Sweetwater River.”

“Well you’ll find something that suits you,” Alice assures, “I’ll even assist you in your quest for an honest living. Just...for goodness’ sake Penelope, do _not_ sit around this house moping and thinking your life is over because some crazy old nun and your backwards mother gave you an awful piece of advice that belongs in the Victorian era over twenty years ago.”

Penelope shifts in her seat but manages to give a stiff nod before looking back down at her arm. She wants to tell Alice that there’s more to it than just that— that saving the family portrait was merely a justification to herself, and that what running into the Thornhill fire really was was a rash, ill-conceived attempt at taking her own life. She wants to tell her that every time she sees the scars on her arm, that she’s reminded of the pain she felt that night— both physical and emotional— and that she can still recall how the flames felt against her skin, how quickly they had burned through the fabric of her clothes, before she eventually lost consciousness. But now wasn’t the time for such conversation. Alice had done enough for her as it was, and she was grateful for the help. 

“I appreciate that,” she says alternatively, and she means it. For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel entirely hopeless. 

Satisfied with her response, Alice offers her a smile. “Alright, now come on,” she insists, getting up from her seat on the red velvet couch and extending her hand so Penelope can take it. “I don’t want the whipped cream on our milkshakes melting off in the fridge. Or...what is it you call it, again? The _icebox_?”

Penelope allows a short laugh to escape her lips as she reaches out and takes Alice’s extended hand. There was nothing she was going to miss more than these weekly visits once she was fully recovered.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are much appreciated!


End file.
